Time
Flowing like a river
Time
Beckoning me
Who knows when we shall meet again
If ever
But time
Keeps flowing like a river
To the sea
“Time” by the Alan Parsons Project
It’s November of 2022, and my family and I are leaving Conroe, Texas. I’ve just spoken at my aunt’s funeral, and in our otherwise quiet car, “Time” by the Alan Parsons Project plays on the radio. It is a moment emblazoned in my memory.
I hadn’t heard that song in decades, and in that instant, it became a soundtrack of the era.
My aunt’s name was Shirley, and ours was a relationship affected by parental alienation. I’d not seen her between the ages of 15 to 38. She was my mother’s sister, and the two of them had a decades-long history of discord. After one of their blowups in the 80s, my mother doubled down on smearing her older sister, telling us in language I won’t share here that Shirley was not worth knowing.
This was before the era of electronic communication, so when my mother stopped talking to Shirley, it effectively closed that door for me. When I reached adulthood, silence had become habit.
In my late 30s, newly divorced and taking a fresh look at my life, I reached out to Shirley. I felt guilty for having let the separation go on for as long as it had. I emailed her, transparently shared what had happened, and asked if we could meet. She graciously said yes.
Before long, I was at her front door, nervously knocking. And there she was, radiant and welcoming as she said, “Hi Brian!” My anxiety stopped.
My cousins, whom I’d also not seen in those 23 years, were there. The whole family was welcoming and warm. I would not have been surprised if they’d shunned me, but there I was receiving handshakes and hugs, and meeting since-born family members I’d not known of.
Not long after that, Renee and I married, and she and Shirley were birds of a feather. It could not have been more heart-warming to see them have their own relationship, one that seemed to materialize from the first moment they met.
As the years proceeded, Shirley became like a grandmother to my children. Each summer they would spend a week or two with her, having adventures as nearby as central Texas and as far off as New Orleans. Holidays included seeing that wing of the family, and though Conroe is about 200 miles from here, we found opportunities to traverse the distance and get together.
When she fell ill in 2022, I was overcome with as much gratitude as sadness. Seeing her the last time was difficult, but it helped keep me in the present. There was neither reason to dwell on nor to mourn the time we did not have together. My daughter, who’d estranged herself just a few months prior to Shirley’s passing, was not at the funeral of her great aunt. The family asked where she was, of course, and I answered them honestly but briefly.
In PLACE groups, when the moment is right, sometimes I share this reunion story. Hope is a complicated thing for an estranged parent. Many of us get out of bed some days only because of it, even as we know dwelling on it can lead to disappointment. We don’t know what time will bring us, if anything, though I hope somewhere is a light called hope that flickers inside of you when you need it.
